


Stunning monochrome

by shipping_forecast



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Caretaking, Comfort/Angst, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jolto angst, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Reichenbach Angst, Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited, bdsm references though, it's just angst from start to finish, just angst and no sex, oh yes and have some, really I don't know why you would want to read this, seriously this has no redeeming characteristics whatsoever, unless you really want to burn in jolto hell, with a smattering of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 16:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5097206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipping_forecast/pseuds/shipping_forecast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When James Sholto returns from the ceremony at Buckingham Palace with a Victoria Cross he doesn't feel he deserves, he finds a familiar face on his doorstep. </p><p>"Slowly, James gives in, lets go, abandons the rigid posture that barely got him through the day, and with a sigh, he slumps into John’s arms. John doesn’t say anything, just keeps stroking his back, and James can feel his heart beat steadily against his side. It is the familiarity of John’s embrace that finally breaks him, and he feels heat gather in his eyes and his chest constrict. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stunning monochrome

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet is pure angst from beginning to end. I'm warning you now: it has no redeeming features. I don't know why you'd want to read it unless you want to burn in Jolto hell. Don't say I didn't warn you.
> 
> There was going to be sex but then that didn't feel right anymore. A certain Jolto playlist may be to blame for part of the angst. The title is from "Grey" by Ani Difranco.  
> You can find me on tumblr as to-johnlock-hell-in-a-handbasket.
> 
> Not beta'd, please let me know of any mistakes you find.

James Sholto leaves the ceremony as soon as he can. He pushes his way through the crowd of waiting reporters with a stoic face. As soon as he is in the cab, he unpins the medal and shoves it in his pocket, a burning reminder of his failure. He can feel his hand start to shake and swallows down a choked noise as he presses it tight under his arm and stares, unseeing, out at the busy London streets.

When the cab stops outside his house, he sighs at the sight of a small crowd of reporters waiting outside. Not as many as at the Palace, thankfully, but the ones who have followed him here are the worst. He tries to ignore their shouted questions and the cameras being shoved in his face as he makes his way to the door. There, on the doorstep, is a short man in a dark jacket. He is the only one without a camera or notepad in his hands. He just stands there, looking calmly at the approaching Major. Slowly, recognition dawns.

“John,” he whispers. It is a sign of how exhausted he is. All those months together in Afghanistan he never used his first name once in public. Not even when there was nobody in hearing range. Not even when the medics rushed John back to the camp. Even then, Major Sholto did not slip, though his shout of “Watson!” laid all his fear and love bare for everyone to see, had anyone been in a condition to notice it. But everyone had been too occupied and shaken by the Captain’s injuries, and it had gone unremarked. That was the price of secrecy, and never once had their masks slipped.

But now James Sholto is staring at his old lover for the first time since that awful day, and he whispers his name. John Watson takes the keys from James’ hand, unlocks the door and bundles him inside, away from the braying pack. He takes him by the elbow – his right elbow, only ever his right from now on – and guides him up the stairs to his tiny flat. 

Inside, John hesitates only for a moment to get his bearings and then sits James down on the couch. He disappears to the kitchenette for a glass of water, which he puts in James’ hand and, when he doesn’t move, lifts to his lips, forcing him to drink. Then he puts it down on the coffee table and kneels to take off James’ shoes. He toes his own shoes off as he stands and then leans down to unbutton James’s uniform jacket, folding it neatly and laying it over the sofa's armrest. Then, still without saying a word, he sits down sideways on the couch and pulls James into his arms.

At first, he just sits there stiffly, leaning slightly sideways into John. But John does not let go, just rubs his thumb slowly across his shoulder. Slowly, James gives in, lets go, abandons the rigid posture that barely got him through the day, and with a sigh, he slumps into John’s arms. John doesn’t say anything, just keeps stroking his back, and James can feel his heart beat steadily against his side. It is the familiarity of John’s embrace that finally breaks him, and he feels heat gather in his eyes and his chest constrict. 

John holds him through the tears, through the great sobs wracking his body, through the shaking and the self-recriminations. He listens as James berates himself, again and again, for his mistake and rages uselessly against the unfairness and cruelty of a fate that would take all those young men but let him live. John does not let go when he complains bitterly about the ridiculousness of giving him a medal and holding speeches about his bravery, when he fumbles the Victoria Cross from his pocket and throws it across the room with shouted curses about gallantry and honour. And when James is finally exhausted, trying to take deep breaths between leftover sobs that sneak up on him, John leans back against the arm of the sofa, pulling James with him. 

They sit like that for a while, James slowly calming down while John rubs his hand in circles on his back and mutters soothingly into his hair. When James finally stirs and lifts his hand to his eyes, wiping at the tears with something that is not quite embarrassment, John leans over to the table and hands him the half-filled glass. This time James drinks without prompting and then looks at John for the first time since they entered the flat. John gives him a sad half-smile and brushes his thumb gently over James’ cheek. 

“John,” Sholto says quietly, but he doesn’t know what else to say, so he turns into John’s embrace, presses his face against his chest and breathes in the familiar smell of John Watson underneath unfamiliar wool and aftershave. John strokes his back, places small kisses on his hair – still cut to regulation – and holds him until James starts to lean into the hand that strokes him, nuzzle at his chest, then dares press a kiss into John’s neck. He can feel John smile against his scalp. “Let’s get you to bed.”

James lets himself be led to the bed, lifts his arms and legs as required as John undresses him gently but with the professional detachment of a doctor. When he is sitting there in his pants, he wraps his arms around John and pulls him closer, burying his face in his belly. John strokes his hair, then steps back. “You should sleep, James.” James looks up at him forlornly. “Please, Captain. I need you.”  
“Shh. I’m here. I’ll take care of you. But I’m not going to take advantage of you.”  
“You won’t. I need you.” And he does. He needs to hurt. He needs to forget. He needs to relinquish command, needs to follow orders, needs to not make decisions.  
“I know. But you have to trust me. I know what you need. Do you trust me?” James nods.  
“Then lie down.” He pulls back the covers, nudges James gently but firmly until he lies down. Removing only his sweater, he lies down next to James and pulls him into a tight embrace. “Sleep now. I’ll be here when you wake.”

And he is. James isn’t sure how long he stays. Days, maybe a week. Whenever he wakes up, John is there, sitting by the bed on a chair he’s pulled up or puttering about in the kitchen with takeout that he forces James to eat. He listens to him rant and rage, holds him when the tears come. He shakes him awake when he has nightmares, but lets him sleep otherwise, reads to him when he can't sleep. Sometimes James will wake up in John’s embrace, a quiet snuffling against his hair. When he stirs, John will sometimes wake up as well. He will smile and look at him. Sometimes he’ll kiss his brow or stroke his hair, but he won’t do anything else, and after the first night, James doesn’t try to initiate anything. He is still hurting, aching for John, unaccustomed to the prolonged proximity they never had in the army, where every moment was stolen and secret and falling asleep next to each other came with the risk of exposure. And now he has him in his bed, wakes up to his smile, and he cannot have him. But he understands. It would have felt good to let go, to have his control stripped from him, to be pushed out of his mind for a while. But it wouldn't have been right. It would have been but a temporary escape and it would have hurt even worse afterwards. Because John is no longer his. His heart belongs to someone else now.

James has had little else to do for the last months than watch TV and read the papers. Although he hasn’t reached out to John since his return, he’s read his blog, has seen his love written loud and clear across every post. And he has read the last short post and seen a heart shattered to pieces. He’s read the articles and seen the reports and he could punch the man for doing that to John. He would never have hurt him that way. He would never have jumped.

Except that he would. He has thought of little else these last months. Not jumping, no. A gun. A soldier’s death. Oh.

When John returns from the kitchen with tea, he sits up unprompted for the first time since the ceremony. “John,” he says, reaching for his hand. John smiles at him questioningly. “Thank you. I- I won’t.” John squeezes his hand briefly, closes his eyes for a moment and takes a few deep breaths. “Good,” is all he says, but James can see the relief in his eyes warring with painful memories.

After he’s drunk the tea, John makes him get out of bed and have a shower. James stands there until the water grows cold, letting it beat against his head and his back. Afterwards they sit down on the couch to eat the pizza John ordered in. They talk about small things, smiling at shared memories, shying away from the pain and the love. 

John has changed the sheets while he was in the shower and when they go to bed, John reads to him until he falls asleep. For the first time in months, James sleeps peacefully.

The next morning, he wakes feeling rested. Not good, certainly not happy, not even quite ready to face the world. But ready to carry on. 

John offers to look at places with him, but he declines. He needs to do this alone. John understands.

“Call me if you need anything, James,” he says at the door. James nods and attempts a smile. They both know he won’t.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m going with the timeline proposed here, which meshes well with my headcanon that this happened while Sherlock was away. For some reason I always assumed the burns were from an acid attack, not from the ambush in Afghanistan, but I can’t find any information to back it up.  
> http://beejohnlocked.tumblr.com/post/125229998766/cakepopsforeveryone
> 
> I based the ceremony bit on what I found on Wikipedia about the Victoria Cross. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Victoria_Cross Since it is usually presented by the Queen, I assumed Sholto would get it at a huge fancy do at Buckingham Palace, feeling completely out of place and bitter but too good a soldier to refuse to accept it.
> 
> If you need a pick-me-up after this angstfest, how about Commanding Officer, my Jolto ficlet from happier times? http://archiveofourown.org/works/4864949


End file.
